Dangerous Boys
by Darkflame's Pyre
Summary: Jeff thinks about his boys, and how for this family in particular, danger runs in the genes. Fic Twelve of the Bound Oneshot Collection. Movie-verse.


**A/N: Hey. Sometimes it really sucks having a family of Tracys as replacement plot bunnies. I sit down to finish off the next chapter of Determined, but then Jeff decides to dump this idea in my lap. It's almost a follow-on to Pater Et Filii, albeit a few years later, but it also goes off on another tack as well. I'm hoping it is somewhat coherent and organised, seeing as it is nearly twelve am, but I can always come back and fix it later. **

**Please enjoy, everyone!**

**Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no, I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

The lines of text blur on the page, the black block letters swimming together like puppies sprawling in the hay-spread stall of the barn on our old farm. Midgie the Dalmatian; the boys' old pet, and now a resident of my mother's homestead back in Lawrence is precisely the same shade of black and white.

I blink, rubbing my eyes fiercely behind my reading glasses; trying to peer past the swirling lines of incomprehensible phrasing that make up the latest report from the TA collaboration with Jeshan Corp, and I realise that I have been sitting here for far too long.

I sit back in the plush leather armchair that came with me from Kansas to the island, and has been a fixture in my home offices since I had moved into that first apartment with Lucille. My eyes flicker to the silver Rolex watch sitting on the desk that I removed too long a time ago to actually be sure of when, and I realise that it is way past time for bed, if I have even removed the damn thing in the first place.

Hurriedly, I strap it back onto my wrist, glancing at the time again as I notice that I didn't actually register the placing of the hands the first look.

_ 1.16 am_. Way too late to even think about another cup of coffee.

My lips quirk ruefully as I consider that thought. I can hear Onaha's squawking, as well as Kyrano's disapproving tones now… Not to mention Virgil's if he ever manages to hear about my coffee habits at all.

Stretching, I breathe in as my spine crackles; the vertebrae popping as tension accumulated from hours of sitting in one position are loosened, twisting my stiff muscles and rolling my head on my shoulders to alleviate the stress gathered from being hunched over my keyboard for most of the evening.

Roving my gaze over the disaster-zone I call my desk, my eye catches the picture of myself, my wife and my five sons as we stood in front of the alpine lodge that had been the location of our last family outing before Lucy's death.

Lucy. My best friend, my wife, and the woman that had held the other half of my soul in her hands.

She gave me the seven greatest gifts I have ever received in my life; her love, and our five wonderful boys. For three days we had someone who would have been another older brother for Gordon and Alan to antagonise, and who would have been the seventh member of our family; Kent Slayton Tracy.

He was a twin to my middle son Virgil, and named after 'Deke' Kent Slayton. But it was not to be; the stresses of being the smaller baby had pressured his heart, and our first 'fourth' boy had died within barely thirty-six hours of being born.

It is around this time of year, as the winter comes to the island and the surrounding oceans, and Virgil's birthday rolls around, that I recall and remember my family as it could have been; whole, complete and with nothing missing to leave holes gaping, but still fringed with warmth and memories.

It is with no small amount of sadness that I wonder what kind of man Kent may have turned out to be, had he lived, nor how our family would be if Lucille hadn't have died that December eve, almost seven years ago now. God how I miss them both so much each day!

It makes me think just how the rest of my sons cope with the loss, but also of the ways that they test my sanity and patience with each and every waking moment.

Our family has always been endlessly danger-prone; it is somewhere deep-rooted in the genes on both the Tracy and Evanson sides. I think about the times that almost every single one of my boys has been in a life-threatening situation at one time or another, and I must pray that nothing will ever actually cause me to lose another one of the people I hold closest to my heart.

Scott; with his never-ending need to protect and care for others; not only his younger brothers, but the entire world in general. He really cannot see the danger to himself, only how he may possibly prevent any of the people that he has sworn to himself to protect from being harmed.

That is why I was so terrified when he informed me, at the tender age of fourteen that he was going to be an Air Force fighter pilot when he grew up.

Recalling the terror I felt when he and Alan were trapped in the rubble with Lucy after the avalanche, I cannot describe the three weeks that I was forced to face the fact that I might have lost my eldest son to the horrors of war.

He had been captured, tortured and interrogated, before finally being tracked down by scouts from the USAF. He was given an honourable discharge after the terrible experiences and memories of eighteen months ago, but not only do I know that he still endures nightmares about his captivity, but he also walks with a painless, though still visible limp from the full reconstruction done on his left leg and knee.

Now, just on the cusp of launching my new organisation; International Rescue, I know that having given my eldest son the post of Field Commander, that not only will potential rescuees be protected by Scott's huge shield, but my sons and his younger brothers will always be sure that their brother will be there to help them out, just as he always does; without even consciously thinking about it.

It was something that I heard him whisper to Lucy at his mother's funeral, and I know for a fact that when my son makes a promise he does everything in his power and more to make sure that it is kept.

John is probably the one that I hold least at fault for the batch of grey hairs he has given me over the years.

Usually the son less likely to cause trouble, I think that despite the fact he really couldn't help his situation, John gave me the greatest scare of my life when he was diagnosed with cancer six years ago.

He is long in remission, but the memories of how ill he was really doesn't sit well with a father, nor the idea that he one day could very well end up relapsing, and the next time around he might not be able to scrape past by the skin of his teeth.

He always takes care of himself physically, and is always the first to notice a sibling in trouble, but he never has much care for himself emotionally, at least until after his brothers have been looked after. I wonder if it was the right choice on my part to send him up to be the main operator of the space station.

I worry so much about my second boy's wellbeing, but Brains has assured me that there is no worry of him getting ill up on Thunderbird Five because of the oxygen-scrubbing machines installed, but I don't think I will ever shake the memories of seeing John so tiny and defenceless; all skin and bones within the huge hospital bed as he clung to life.

He is so enthused about spending his time among his beloved stars, though, that I cannot bear to hold him back. He is up there at the moment with all his shiny new toys and gadgets, getting ready for when we commence operations officially in three months' time.

Virgil is another worry when it comes to life-endangering practices. I don't know how he managed it nor how his teachers allowed it, but at the age of fourteen —on a school trip to the Grand Canyon of all places— my daring middle son decided that it would be a brilliant idea to climb up and try and balance along the fence running around the edge of the precipice sky-walk.

He ended up in the hospital after hitting the ground hard enough to give himself a concussion and a broken collarbone. I thank my lucky stars that he hadn't even gotten halfway to standing on the fence, nor fallen to the _other _side of the wall, but by God, I recall every word of the reaming-out his grandmother and I gave him once he was discharged.

Sometimes I wonder what goes through that boy's mind. Although usually very placid and well-behaved, it seems to me at times that he is bound and determined to exhaust not only his own recklessness supply, but also to have drained that which his third-youngest brother would have had possessed had he lived. Alan and Gordon are coming up to that point in dangerous schemes, which is terrifying even in thought.

Having just turned eighteen, Virgil is no longer a child, but he still honestly doesn't think as much as an adult should. In serious circumstances, yes; now my middle son is much more responsible, but when in fun or jest, he can be just as heart-wrenchingly dangerous as Gordon and Alan.

My youngest two, having said before that they are getting to the point where I must name them 'Danger' and 'Danger-er' respectively, have only so far scared me out of my wits in minor endeavours. They're mostly out of the effects of not-thinking and going too fast, too hard, or not actually even caring about anything aside from speed in the first place; things like jumping out of trees across rooftops and going too fast down hills on bikes; normal kid stuff. I just hope that the phase passes before anything serious happens.

Gordon, thankfully, of late seems only to have been focused on speed in terms of what swiftness he can get up to in the pool, which for me is a sigh of relief when I think about his prior fascination with speedboats.

At sixteen, he doesn't want to go for his driver's test; 'Where will I drive on a tropical island, Dad, really?', but went instead to go for his boater's licence two summers ago, when I told my boys that we were moving here. We just watched him win his butterfly gold medal in the Summer Olympics two weeks ago, and I consented to him heading to Madrid with his team to have a little fun soaking up the atmosphere. He is to be coming home for the rest of the summer in two days' time.

He has me no less worried with his interest in motorboats and the recently completed Thunderbird One as a general rule, but I understand that completely; every teenager has an obsession at some point with fast vehicles and the attraction of women, as I did with Lucy back in high school. But I wish for him to be careful, as I do all of my children. I don't think I could cope with seeing any of them hurt or sick again.

Alan, at only eleven right now, has no chance of being put anywhere near anything remotely dangerous. It seems lately however, that he is even more interested in motorcross and motorbike riding than usual. He, along with his elder brothers has an alarming penchant for speed, and I wonder how exactly I shall cope if he decides that he wants to actually race cars for a living. I intend for him at least to not have any excuse to do anything as daft as what his brothers got up to in their teen years. I only hope that nothing ever gives him any experience or ideas in that area.

I blink a little at my watch, and realise that I have just, somehow lost another whole hour staring at a photograph. My neck has stiffened up, and my eyes are gritty with the impending indicators of sleep. I should really get to bed before any one of my three home-bound sons discover me still awake at two in the morning. That really wouldn't be a pretty situation, especially with Virgil and Scott on the case.

I have shut down the computer and am just about to switch the lights off before I head to bed. I go to turn, and there is a sudden, blaring ring from the phone on the corner of the desk, hidden by a paperwork pile that never seems to get any smaller. Wondering who in heck would be calling at this time of the night, morning, whatever-the-time-is-now, I fumble sleepily for the earpiece, leaning against the desk as I cradle it against my ear.

"Jeff Tracy speaking."

The voice on the other end is authoratitive, quiet and reassuring, and in my tiredness, I only register part of the sentence.

_Your son,_ _Gordon… hospital… boat crash. Get here quickly._

Oh no.

**A/N: Please let me know what you all think of it. It's a little different, but hopefully it will let me concentrate on Determined tomorrow!**

**-Pyre Xx**


End file.
